GRIEF: a sonata
by Karasu Kurokiba
Summary: This is their story, their song, and their dream. For what is darkness... but light?" An assortment of angsty short stories centering around the FFX crew.
1. prelude

_prelude._

Once upon a time there was a flower, and a child, and a world made of glass. The flower was red, and the child was a girl, and the world broke in half. She had broken it. 

There was also a boy. The boy was no one and nothing, a dream and a ghost, but he had skies for eyes and sun for hair.

Then there were others: a wildfire, a column, an icicle, a veteran, and a beast.

And these were the saviors, the ones who freed the world of chains in sin.

But then, the ghost died. The sun-sky boy disappeared, and the child that was a girl broke as well. She hunted. She looked. She searched, and she found a chain and a joker and a priest and a seeker.

But there was no sun.

* * *

This is a story with nothing. Or so it would be, if there is nothing in darkness. But that is up to you – for what is pure darkness? Is it but light? 

This is a story of hope. This is a story of faith. This is a story of madness, of anger, of hate, of nothing, and of everything. This is the beginning and the end.

This is a story of love.

This is a lullaby.

This is their story, their song, and their dream.

For what is darkness... but light?

* * *

_AN: _hi and welcome to GRIEF. this is a weird, confusing prelude that basically sums up a more emotional side of FFX. think of this anthology as shards of glass being pieced together to form something of a storyline.

the characters' actual names have been replaced with other, made up ones simply to confuse you and (quite possibly) annoy you. however, it is my firm belief that you will be able to identify each character instantly. oh, how very sad indeed...

have fun. Karasu


	2. requiem

_AN: _the first chapter begins. can you guess who this character is? it will probably become more obvious as this chapter goes on, as will the mentioned characters that are disguised by other names. enjoy.

* * *

_requiem._

The clockwork was rusting. 

She watched the little mechanical man go about his business as usual, moving robotically to make her bed. Pick up her clothes. Fix her dresser.

Turning away, she continued her walk down the hallway, clutching her precious doll to her bosom as she went. She didn't know why she bothered worrying about the little man, anyway. When he broke down, a new one would just magically take his place, continuing what the first one had done. It wasn't like he was alive. It must have been her surviving conscience, that was all. A shred, a whisper, an echo of her sense of humanity. Easily removable.

Feeling already tired of her stroll, she was relieved when she came to the main hall, where a soft, cushioned lilac chair was set by a table bearing her favorite breakfast – half a grapefruit, two perfect pancakes (like which she could never make), and even a single flower in a vase. She smiled. It was perfect. Everything was perfect. Her darling beloved must have woken up extra early to make it just for her.

Seated in the chair of her dreams, she began to daintily eat her wonderful breakfast and examine the flower. It was an anemone, she knew. How did she know?

Oh yes. It was someone's favorite flower.

Ashe's flower.

She stopped eating suddenly, and stared at the flower. A perfect, red anemone.

_It's a flower for the dead, people say. But they don't see it's the harbinger of spring, the ender of winter. It's the first to pop up for the spring, way before the crocuses, even._

She grabbed at her sweet doll, clutching it to her chest. That voice – a sisterly voice with the patience to explain a flower's nature to a naïve six-year-old.

_But it's because of that earliness that they always die. The snow's still there when they come... so they usually die. I'm lucky if I can find one untouched by the frost. Red ones are the hardest to find, though. I've only seen one, and even then it was dead._

She pushed away the breakfast, hoping it would fall, would shatter, would break into a million splinters just like her heart had. But she didn't want to kill the anemone.

Ashe had never seen a red anemone as beautiful as this one.

_ I still love them, though. So beautiful, even for only a little bit of time. So faithful, always coming up for spring even though it really isn't here, and dying because of it._

The table didn't fall. Neither did the anemone. She was no longer hungry. Tightening her death-hold on her treasure, she briskly left the room. She tried to replace her memories with other thoughts.

What should she do today? Maybe a walk around the gardens would do her good. No. They had anemones in the garden, obviously, as there had been one with her breakfast. How could her dearest have done such a thing, to stir up those forgotten memories?

She was quickly ashamed. He was not at fault – he had never known about the anemones, about their relation to Ashe. It was not his fault at all. Perhaps a beach trip today, then. Her darling always did love the sea, and she did too. It was always so calming, warm, and gentle.

She walked to the arched back door in the back of the castle. She had always wanted to live in a castle – it had been a childhood fantasy – but now that she really was living in one, patrolled by countless mechanical servants and with magnificent food and beautiful dresses, this perfect world made her feel light and free.

Already she was at the beach. This did not surprise her, though, as she had only to wish where she wanted to be and she would be there. She stepped on the sand, acknowleding the warm but not blazing heat seep into her bare feet. She grinned, feeling better already after the morning incident. Oh, this was glorious. She hoped her dear was having as good of a time as she was. She glanced to the side to see if he was happy, and, indeed, he was. That beautiful smile she loved so much was beaming right back at her, showing her he loved her as much as she loved him. She felt wonderfully light, being here on the beach with the one she loved most in the world, smiling at her. She hugged him as the red light of sunset shone down on them. Sunset already? Ah well – she remembered that time really did fly when one was happy. Who had said that to her? A man... a man who had been her maybe- brother. Kyre had. Kyre and Ashe had said that when they were there, sitting on the bench in front of their house, and she had gone to tell them it was dinner time.  
  
_What? Dinner already? Jeez..._  
  
No... no, she did not want them here. She did not want their words of the past to come to her perfect future. She stood up with a jerk.  
  
_Well, time does fly when you're having fun, right?  
_  
She broke out running across the beach, hair flying, running from memories and towards her castle, her last sanctuary. She was out of breath when she reached the archway, panting ferociously. She had won. The memories had lost chase. She was safe again. Though she felt hungry, she did not turn to the dining hall. She went straight to her room, where the clockwork servants still milled about, cleaning the hallways and the chamber. She felt an unusual sickness in her stomach, as if seeing them made her hurt. She wanted to get rid of them, but she couldn't. Feeling annoyed, she jumped into her nightgown and into her bed, where she curled into a ball and seized the doll with desperate strength. She tried to quell her rising fear, but it was difficult as she didn't know what she was even afraid of. All she could do was hug her treasure and hope the fear would leave her to sleep. 

Her dreams were haunted. Blood-red flowers and quick sunsets circled around in her head, calling forth other memories, of a girl who liked light silk ribbons and a man who wore an eyepatch. And then came the boy with the straw hair and sky eyes, with the beautiful sun-smile that made all her fears go away. She remembered seeing the flowers die, the nights come. She remembered the ribbons ripping and the eyes close. But then she remembered the sun-smile ending, the light going out, her world being plunged into darkness without the sun. Her heart shattered again, like she had hoped the table would. But she had hung on to the last shard, her only prayer, and had fallen into a beautiful dream. A beautiful place, with red flowers. Quick sunsets. Blue ribbons. Hidden eyes. And a doll, a beautiful doll with straw hair and sky eyes and a sun-smile. A beloved doll. A darling doll. A treasured doll.

A clockwork doll.


	3. crescendo

_crescendo._

The ribbon was purple – a pale lavender, really. Made of silk, it was truly an elegant thing, something to toy with on a cold night. She knew he had liked it, and had bought it for her on the assumption that she would like it as well.She hated it. She hated it almost as much as she hated him, as she hated the world, as she hated everything.

When he had given it to her, he had been giving her that weak smile of his that she supposed he thought would calm her. Ever since she had arrived, she had loved nothing more than to shatter it at every chance she got. Turning up her nose when he proffered it to her had done the trick.

Yet even now, she was intrigued by the simple ribbon. She dangled it in front of her, watching it sway with her movements, the silk threads shining in the dying sun. Even if it was beautiful, she hated it with all her heart, and maybe more. She didn't know why, but something in her mind was nagging her – telling her it was bad, and it was terrible, and it was reviving memories that were better dead. She had not known she could harbor such hatred for a normal lavender silk ribbon.

But why did she hate it? Half of her thought it was beautiful. Half of her thought that the simplest things were the most beautiful.

Where had the thought come from? Someone had said it. "That which is beautiful can only be beautiful if it can die, and even that beauty must be swift, fleeting, there for only an instant before it fades away." Why did she remember it?

His shirt had been lavender.

It struck her like a train ramming into a brick wall. _His shirt had been lavender._ Yes_._ It had been lavender_._

It was too late to bury it again.

The scream attracted the man she hated to where she sat outside, to where she clutched her head and stared into the scarlet, too-bright sun. She felt her hands shaking madly on her ears, but she was beyond caring. If he touched her or tried to calm her, she did not know. All she knew was the terrible abyss that had become her mind, neverending and unrelenting.

Two words cam to her, floating through the empty black sea that was her soul. She could not say the second word.

_"No..."_

Her open lips felt the warm saltwater falling onto them, but nothing happened. All she could do was say the second word silently over and over again, a soundless echo that no one but her knew.

The ribbon had made her remember him. The boy who had stolen away her smile. The boy who had charmed away her heart.

The boy who had died when she should have instead.

She did not close her eyes to stop the stream. She continued to stare on into the crimson sun, feeling it burn away the green eyes that had condemned her as a heathen. How would it feel, she wondered, to disappear in that scarlet globe forever?

Suddenly, the fiery light was cut off. Suddenly. Oh, why was everything so sudden? It was always too soon, too early. Then too late.

"Lym? Lym, are you all right?"

She did not want him here. She wanted him gone, gone, gone with the sun and the light and with Kale. Gone gone gone.

Oh, how wonderful it would be to strangle him with his own ribbon, his own gods-damned ribbon that had started it all! How sweet, like a caramel chocolate.

_"What? Caramel? Lym, babe, you've gotta be kidding. Marshmallow's the best!"_

Or maybe marshmallow. He'd liked marshmallow.

She clenched her teeth and dove, flexing the claws that had once been called hands into him, hoping that he'd die, that he'd fade, that he'd feel all the pain that she did now, all from his terrible evil ribbon.

She heard him yell, but it was short, too short. Not long enough to satisfy her anger. She wanted him to... to suffer! To cry! To feel the pain she had felt, and be forced into this endless hatred because of it!

_Who... are you?_

She froze. Who was that... a voice?

_You... you are not Lym._

Voices in her head. Voices in her head. She wanted to laugh – she knew she wasn't all sane, but she hadn't expected voices. But she also wanted to cry.

_You cannot be Lym!_

...this voice. She had heard it, once upon a time upon a time upon a dream. Upon a lavender ribbon, bought for her for Aria's wedding so she and he could match.

_Lym... would never be this angry!_

She remembered laughing with this voice, this person. She remembered smiling at this voice.

She remembered losing her heart to this voice.

She let go of the man she had hated. She let go of it all, let go of consciousness and all its pain.

She sank back into her sea-black soul, into a blazing ball of red, and into the arms of Kale.

_I... I am Lym._

* * *

_AN: _oh, how the emotions trill. several hints at the characters in this one, though the "hated man" is unknown. he can be whoever you want, dearies. "Crescendo", in musical lingo, means "to gradually become louder". my writing may suck, but at least I know my musical terms! wow.


	4. nocturne

_nocturne._

__   
  
He ran his fingers along the lines in the wall, feeling the the grooves of centuries gone. He wished he had something better to do, but there was nothing that would ever distract him long enough.

He had found the way back here easily enough, sadly. It was like the day he'd disappeared had never happened, that all his memories over there were nothing but dreams. Sometimes he found himself wondering if all it really was was a dream, but he'd only need to remember a green-blue pair of eyes to feel certain it had been real. But then again, what was real? Who was the dream, who was the dreamer?

His fingers caught a sharp rock, and he cursed when the small jolt of pain told him he was bleeding. He tightened his fingers around the cut in an effort to still the bleeding, and it slowed a bit. He'd remembered being told that, in a dream, you couldn't feel pain, but now he wasn't so sure. In the other place, he had felt guns shoot him, swords stab him, and words break him. That pain could not have been a dream.

_Isn't it wonderful?_

The words caught him, coming from seemingly nowhere. But he knew it, recognized the tune even though he'd only heard it in a dream. In an elsewhere. But he knew them.

_Isn't it wonderful?_

He kept walking, hoping to escape this strange melody. Didn't this dock ever end? He knew his house was around here... somewhere...

_Isn't it wonderful?_

Ah – there it was. About time, too. This had been his mother's house before his, but he couldn't bear to let her possessions go. Sure, memories were nice, but that was always what they were in the end, right?

_Isn't it wonderful?_

This time, the words came from above him, and he looked up. A music speaker. He might have known. He should have remembered installing it there himself, almost two years ago, but he didn't. Maybe those distant memories had been pushed out of his mind for more important ones.

_ Isn't it wonderful?_

The CD must have frozen, or gotten stuck, or something. But he knew it hadn't. How could it be frozen, or stuck, or something, when there was no CD?

_Isn't it wonderful?_

She had said it too, looking out over the lake. Staring at the sunset. Holding his hand. There had been nothing there but them, and a lake, and six syllables, three words, four seconds. Four precious seconds left on a timer between her and death.

Or what was supposed to be her death. He hadn't known that she was a sent sacrifice until so much later.

But he had saved her. He had stopped that timer, destroyed it with the sword, and saved her and everyone else.

And now it was his death. His time, his return, his ending and his beginning. His hell. His heaven. His limbo.

But now he was home. Where was this? When did this happy medium come into the picture?

Though he wouldn't have called it happy for the world.

_Isn't it wonderful?_

He put his hands over his ears, trying to kill the memory as he had killed her death. But there was no sword now, just him and words and ghosts of people that might have been dreams.

_Isn't it wonderful?_

They couldn't have been dreams.

_Isn't it wonderful?_ __  
  
Then it stopped. It all stopped, and all he felt was the sluggish bleeding of a tiny cut, staining his glove. He had forgotten the minor, insignificant pain. Forgotten everything but a kiss, and a pair of eyes, and three words.

Four seconds.

He dropped to his knees, hitting them hard against wooden flooring. He felt nothing, nothing but the pounding of three words, six syllables, four seconds, and a little cut caused by the wall that separated him from everything.

_Isn't it wonderful?_

* * *

_AN: _oh, come on. everyone likes a little jolt of angst to wake ya up, ne? the words "isn't it wonderful" is, though you all know this already, "suteki da ne" in english. "Nocturne" is generally a name used for a "night piece", or a composition that has a sort of nighttime mood to it. thanx to ParvisSira, Abigail Marie, and Blue Dragon X for the reviews. I shall try to remember their wise words in future installments of this "story". actually, in truth, I've already written the next chapter. it is the next few that are unwritten. wish me luck... 


	5. adagio

_adagio._

The sun was setting, she noted. Always so dramatic, a ball of flame painted against a nectarine sky with wisps of sandy alabaster for clouds. 

At least, that's how she thought it as she sat on the beach.

Other people, other couples gave her the odd stare as they passed by, hand in hand. Tourists. The locals were people she had grown up with and watched grow up, and they treated her with respect and admiration as a savior – which she was. The damned tourists probably had no idea they were openly staring with revulsion at a woman who had gone to the end of the world and returned, carrying a burden greater than the sun.

Maybe it was the black. Yes, she had gotten stared at for the dress she always wore, but now more than ever she had a reason for it. She did not need to explain her story to every person who passed her by.

Then again, she had never told her story to anyone. No one had ever dreamed of asking, and she respected them for that. Her silence was openly accepted, and that was why she would never leave her beloved island.

However, every now and then there came along someone who knew she was not just a normal woman, and wanted to know her story. They were as rare as red anemones, though.

But now there was one.

"Hello, ma'am? I'm looking for someone named Ashe... you look an awful lot like this picture of her. Oh, you are her? That's wonderful... look, can you answer some questions of mine?"

Those cursed reporters. She knew what answer she would give her – nothing. The simple silence she had entertained for more than two years, ever since.

So here she was, hiding out on the beach with her violin and receiving too many stares to be comfortable.

But now she was used to it. The world was too full of ignorant people, as common and as stupid as dust mites, and they would never know. It was better this way.

She picked up her bow and settled the instrument under her chin. Since they had gone, she had taken up violin simply because she had always wanted to. Now, she had nothing else to do but play.

_How far back should I have to go? Tell me _

She could hear the words singing from the violin as she played to the beach and to the sunset.

This was her mourning.

_Everything is so painfully vivid_

The high-pitched cry weaved its way into the air from the strings, becoming its user. She had sought music as a sanctuary, and, hidden inside it, had managed to become apathy.

She was nothing now.  
  
_So long ago, I threw away my brightness  
_  
Up, down, up, down. The slow song of a death, a lament for a faded fire. This was her melody.

_And like the light of the morning sun, it can never return._

"Ma'am?"

The bow sprung off the strings in surprise. She froze, debating whether to simply extinguish this person with a spell or just kill her outright.

"Ah, Lady Ashe... I'm reporting for the Times, and I'd like to know if you could answer some questions of mine...?"

Oh, dear God. She could not do this. She could never tell such stupid people the truth behind their deaths. And it was true, for she knew her mind and heart would break if she plunged back into the past, when she had felt such strong emotions.

Like anger. Like hate.

Like love.

She picked up the bow again, ready to charm away the memories, to chase them away like crimson butterflies.  
  
_It lies beside this cold heart, frozen  
_  
"Um, ma'am...? Lady Ashe?" Maybe, even, if she played enough, her requiem would chase away this reporter as well.  
  
_So completely mindless that it persists forever  
_  
She could see the scarlet butterflies that haunted her dreams now, drifting around a field of red anemones and around her crying violin, as red as the setting sun, as a fading fire, as his hair.

She played harder now, more abruptly, with sudden changes of pitch, like an insane tremolo. But still she could hear the tears in its strings, and the wind in the claret flowers.  
  
_Numbly, I gather up the remnants of my emotions  
_  
"Excuse me... can you even hear me?"

She felt the tapping of an impatient finger on her shoulder, a finger untouched by the feel of death and the true pain that lay beyond it.

Before she knew what she was doing, she had dropped the bow and grabbed that hand, feeling how warm and soft and alive it was.

"Ah! Oh... ummm..."

She knew she must feel like ice, but that was what she was, so it mattered not to her. She could tell the woman didn't really want her holding her hand anyway.

She smiled a tiny smile that barely reached her face.

"Do I truly look like Death?"

She rarely spoke, but she had to know. She could tell what the woman thought by her face, and by her hand. Oh, how she must look: a silent celebrity in a black dress, with such long black hair, sitting in a sunset, playing a violin, and now grasping this strange woman's hand, boring into her soul with the famous red eyes. She would have been scared too... a long time ago.

Two years ago.  
  
_And searching for redemption  
_  
The woman was silent. It was obvious that none of her practiced scripts, her acted movements, her false feelings had prepared her for this. She smiled her little smile again, knowing now for sure that this woman could never understand the truth of a faded fire and a crying violin.  
  
_I'm beginning to learn the designs of sorrow_  
  
She let go of her pure, ignorant hand. "Go." The woman scampered, obviously unnerved by the apathetic soul that played a weeping violin.  
  
_So long ago, I threw away my brightness  
_  
She took up the bow again, letting the rare smile fade back into the darkness as she played her elegy to the dying sun.

To the faded fire.

_And like the light from the morning sun, it can never return._

* * *

_AN_: song is ending of Witch Hunter Robin, "Half-Pain" by Bana. just for reference, "adagio" is a musical term that means "very slowly". and, just for fun and because I never provided a definition, a "requiem" is a song of mourning. sort of like a lament or whatever. anyway, now I have to write the other chapters (because all up to now were written in advance), so the next update might be in a bit. ah well. ciao, dahlings! 


	6. tremolo

_tremolo._

Back and forth. Back and forth. That was all he could do, all he could ever do, even though he was a hero in his own right.

He sighed, wiping the gray rag over and over again in a neverending circle on a spotless window, ignoring the other dust-covered areas. He 'd been called optimistic, but few people could be happy in this scenario.

He turned his head around to look at the setting sun. The light was truly beautiful, reflecting on the window like that. Red as blood, a fiery ball that floated in the sky.

_-between a sky and a sunset, why don't you see me I'm right here-_

He shook his head and blinked. What had that been? Maybe it was a song. Yeah. That was it. From the radio. Something that went like "do-daa-da-doooo-do-do"... or something. Whatever.

_Stupid window._ He hated this job. He hated this life. How had he even gotten himself into this situation anyway? Wasn't he a hero or whatever? Why weren't people bowing in the streets when he walked?

_Probably because you're an Al Bhed in a cesspool of old Yevonites. _No wonder. This city was practically their breeding grounds, a haunt of old Yevon believers that hated the new changes of Spira. And, of course, hated the Al Bhed. They didn't even pay him enough to go anywhere. He got... what was it? Five gil a day? That didn't pay jack shit.

But he was saving. Slowly. About two gil a day, sure, but he was saving. Saving to go... somewhere. He couldn't remember where, exactly, but he was saving.

Luckily, this city (What was it called again? hewondered) was filled with wasteful people, so even the trash they threw out could feed one man for all eternity.

Good thing he was that one man.

"Oye, bastard! Get back to work and stop slacking!"

He grunted without turning around. Really, who was the bastard here? He was surprised the stupid prick didn't have a frikkin' whip. Of course, not that it would have helped, since there was at least fifty feet between him and the overseer-slavedriver-guy.

That still didn't mean he had to call him a bastard. He could have called him... uh...

What was his name again? Damn, he hated these random spurts of amnesia!

_-forgetting it all, where are you I can't see you I still love you-_

Another song? Probably the same one, too. It was starting to get annoying. Wasn't there something else he could get stuck in his head?

He continued his endless circling with the limp rag on the already clean window. To move on was to do more work and, honestly, who wanted to do that? He got five gil a day whether he cleaned the entire temple or sat around scratching his ass. What did it matter? What really mattered anyway?

A bell sounded far below him.

"Yo, asswipes! Time to go away! Get lost, tomorrow'sa 'nother day!"

He sighed. First bastard, now asswipe. Did anyone even remember his real name anymore?

Of course he didn't... but that wasn't the point.

_-my heart lives inside the glass music box here take this key the glass key to my heart set it FREE-_

Argh... what was _with_ this song? Even Lym's singing was better than this, and that had been a noise to be reckoned with!

Wait a minute... who was Lym? Dammit!

_-I'll fly across the sea for you, just for you to hold me close don't you miss me yet-_

This time, he just slapped his forehead in surrender. Fine. Let his mind keep repeating songs he didn't even remember, keep saying things he didn't know.

After all, what mattered?

He turned off the sidewalk into a dirty gray brick building he called home. The rent was only twenty gil a month, thankfully, so he could afford it. Food, however, was a different matter entirely. Food prices had been going up ever since the whole continent had been thrown into chaos.

He went into his bathroom and looked over the dirty white sink. His barely cracked mirror reflected his own face back at him, and he almost laughed. He looked underfed, tired, and even his one good eye looked sort of glazed. This was the face of one of the most famous heroes of Spira? Almost at once, he sombered, but he had no idea why.

He sighed. Even if he couldn't remember his own name, he did know the name of the High Summoner and all the others who had once led Spira. He had even been friends with most of them.

But whenever he thought of their names, his mind drew a blank. So far, he could remember one – the High Summoner's. It had been Aria, he knew, but what of everyone else's?

Well, he never had been good with names anyway.

_-I am your dreams the memory I drift alongside the crimson butterfly over the field of scarlet flowers please save me-_

But who had Lym been? Now that he'd remembered that name, it stuck to his head, floating around in his memory. He couldn't assign a face to it. All he remembered about it was something to do with ribbons, and bad singing, and... and...

Green eyes. Green eyes just like his.

_-sinking into darkness, please won't you reach out your hand catch me I'm falling so scared of the dark-_

He held his head. Who had Lym been? Why did he hear that song? Why was he always forgetting everything??

It broke.

_Aria. Twy. Kirin. Roeph. Vaye. Lym. Lym. Lym. LYM._

_-I love you I love you I love you please won't you come back to me I love you a thousand times over can't you hear me-_

The High Summoner. A beautiful bride. A coma.

The dream. The groom. Lost.

His friend. The navigator. The accident.

The filmer. The change. The insanity.

And Lym. Lym. His Lym.

Dead.

For the first time in two years, Kale cried.

_-an angel's chorus I'll wait for you a thousand years close up my heart in the music box to await your return without change-_

He remembered them coming. He'd fought to give her time.

When he'd woken up, the entire building had collapsed. Nothing but rubble. They said they'd seen no one leave, only bodies.

He'd have been one of them, but he'd lived. Lived and suffered. Lived and lost. Lived while Lym died.

He sank to his knees on the floor of his shoddy apartment. This was why he had been saving... to go to his home. Sanubia.

To escape.

_-oh please come home to me, run into my arms where I'll never let you go chase away the nightmares-_

He stared at his limp hands. It'd been her wedding, and now most of them were dead. Lym was dead. Kirin was dead.

He wanted to be dead.

He stood up again. He stared hard at himself in the mirror, hating everything he saw. This was him. Him, Kale. The one who had loved Lym, teased Lym, protected Lym. The one who had let Lym die.

He stared at his reflection, pulled back his fist, and shattered it right where his good eye would have been.

Then all was silent.

_-I'll harden my heart, show no tears, love you forever and ever and ever into death but still you'll have the memory of me and we will **never be apart**.-_

_

* * *

_

_an: _well, I'm back. I'm sure you're all thrilled, of course... or, more accurately, I _assume_. the word "tremolo" is "a sudden change of pitch", and it usually is short and choppy, like two eighth notes. it's like doing a quick high C and then suddenly doing a low C. if you don't know what an eighth note is, or –perish the thought!- a high C is, you haven't been paying attention during Music class.

different writing style here – less serious, more normal. but, since it is you-know-who, it's more his style, and we all have a soft spot where the so-called "Kale" is concerned. well, at least I do. you people will probably be waiting a bit for the next update too, just to warn you. the next one will be about the one known as "Kyre" (called "stacatto")...

anyway, everyone, now YOU can vote what the one after Kyre will be about! just send a review or whatever saying which character of the following you want to see the account of, and I'll try to listen to you guys! of course, I may just ignore you completely and write whatever... but I'll give this a try anyway.

I will write about:

-Kirin (Baralai)

-Vaye (Paine)

-anyone you can think of (except Roeph/Nooj and Blanche/LeBlanc, because they're too difficult to write for! ;

that's all for now. ciao, dahlings!


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